igure of a bird or of a quadruped, while her eyes
would sadden as they fell upon the mournful face of the crucified
Saviour, whose image was delineated in several parts of the book.

"She knows all her letters," said Sister Celestina, whose true
character as a Catholic and a nun the reader has long ago divined "and
I permit her, as a reward, to look at the missal whenever she has been
diligent."

"Your task is something like taming a young hawk," said the Knight.

"Neebin is not a hawk!" exclaimed the child. "Hawks do not wear
clothes, nor yellow chains, nor can they say _Pater noster_ and _Ave
Maria_."

"No," said the lady; "nor have they a soul to be saved, like Neebin."

"What is a soul?" inquired the girl.

Tears dimmed the eyes of Sister Celestina at the question, and, before
she could reply, the Knight said:

"Thou hast asked a question, Neebin, which puzzles wiser heads; but it
is something which lives when the body becomes dust."

"O, yes," said the child. "I have heard the lady (for so she had been
taught to call Sister Celestina) talk about it. How does it look?"

"There thou askest a question beyond the boundaries of knowledge. No
one has returned from the grave to answer it," said the Knight.

"I know," said the child; "my mother told me. It is Neebin's soul
which looks at her when she bends over a clear spring; it lives in the
water."

"I have tried," said the lady, "to impart the idea, but it seems only
to begin to dawn upon her mind. I trust, by Heaven's grace, (crossing
herself,) it will grow and bear fruit to the glory of sweet Jesus's
name."

"What magnificent results do flow from seemingly insignificant
causes!" said Sir Christopher. "A spark shall light a conflagration of
a mighty city; an acorn shall bear an oak to waft armies over oceans
to conquest; and the conversion of a child to the true faith may
change the destinies of nations. It may be thy blessed lot, Celestina,
to plant a seed which shall grow into a tree, whose branches shall
cover earth with grateful shade, and reach to heaven. There was a time
when, influenced by the example of a king or queen, whose mind divine
grace had illuminated, whole multitudes rushed to be laved in the
saving waters of baptism. Wherefore should not those days return? Now
doth the suffering Church mourn like a pelican in the wilderness, and
though she gives her blood in streams from her torn bosom--alas! how
flows that crimson river, as if in vain